Last night, I started reading Samuel Beckett’s Murphy.
I love reading Beckett, because he’s one of those writers who makes me want to write fiction. I start thinking like a fiction writer again as I read his work.
I’d picked up this book once before, but never got into it. This time, however, I didn’t react against the nude man strapped to his teak rocking chair in the solitude of his apartment with the same, “What the hell?!” that I did last time I began the book, and so I’ve been able to make some progress and actually get into the novel. Good stuff.
It’s a nice change in pace in nighttime reading from the Jordan book I just finished, that’s for sure.
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